


A Song of a Winter Rose

by valkemi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Cousin Incest, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 02:42:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17758253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valkemi/pseuds/valkemi
Summary: The North sheltered the Old Gods, descendants of the Ancients. Walls close to death and snow.The South garnished itself with the New Gods, their dragons singing above. Courts filled with fire and blood.War only stopped by a promise.“You have taken too much from the North. Lyanna promised. My parents promised. You gods have promised. And fate dictates. The North remembers.”





	1. Sansa I

“Your Grace, winter has come.”

 

She stood in the court of these gods, these Targaryens. They sat in their thrones, only watching her. She was an intruder to their feast. They all seemed otherworldly; all of them drifted in this courtyard like a dream, colors painting their scenery, and it seemed to always smell like fresh flowers and rain. This dream would make anyone feel vulnerable to their fine smiles and the staggering ornaments of court. But that was an illusion. She could only hear the eerie screams of dragons above her. Nothing like the solace of Winterfell. She knew now. She had learned.

 

_"I'm a slow learner. It's true. But I learn." She could hear his mind turning as he was kneeling in front of her. Penance were only for the honourable. And he was not._

_“I never meant to hurt you, Sansa.”_

_She maybe had trusted him once. But she was a fool._

_“No need to seize the last word, Lord Baelish. I’ll assume it was something clever. The worst ones always lie.”_

_She could only see golden hair and cutting blue eyes. Sweet words whispered in the air, haunting her. Oh, she was such a fool._

_“Sansa, please-”_

_“Let the punishment fit the crime.”_

 

“Leave child. This is no place for a Stark.”

The words aimed to strike her, but there was truth in them. She did not belong here. And neither did her cousin. She curtsied to them, amicable smile plastered on her face. She glanced at the man who started this mess: Rhaegar Targaryen. He truly embodied the Sun. He was tall, and he wore Targaryen colors of black and red. His eyes were a striking indigo that seemed to enchant the soul. His hair seemed like glittering silk, and his skin was ghostly pale. He had an allure, and when he spoke, even Queen Rhaella paid attention. She could see how her aunt Lyanna could fall for such a man.

 

She sneaked a look at his shadow, one of fire and snow, his son and her cousin. She couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her. Her act of Lady of Winterfell had faltered for a moment as she could only see her father. A ghost. He was the ghost of Ned Stark. She felt his stare, it felt like he was questioning her. It was judging her. A blush began to rise on her cheeks as she forced herself to tear away from his eyes before she became lost in them.

 

He was handsome, definitely not a dainty beauty like Joffrey. They said he was of the night and belonged to the shadows. His dark hair curled on his shoulder, and he looked as tall as his father. He had scars from the war that he was fighting for against the Dothraki, but they only seemed to compliment his face. He was wearing a dark uniform that she suspected soldiers wore. It suited him. He was lean but also strong; his eyes were gray, and he looked like a Stark. ( _She could only hope that he acted like one._ )

 

As she stood before them, she felt like she was screaming into the Moon Door again. No one could hear her.

 

_“You can't want her. You can't. She's a stupid empty-headed little girl.”_

_She was fighting against Lysa. She was going to fall. If only she were a bird. She could fly away from all of this. She was going to die. Nothing could save her now._

_“I’ve loved only one woman.”_

_Lysa had let go of her. They were fighting. His grey-green eyes did not smile when his mouth did. She could only hears lies. His words were empty. But they had saved her. She was alive. She would live._

 

“I do not mean to be difficult, Your Highness, but it was sworn on Styx that Jon would return to our realm on the day he ascends to godhood. I have come to welcome him home.”

She was met with silence. She knew that they were afraid of this, regretful of the promise that they had made. But Jon was always supposed to be a Stark, not a Targaryen.

 

She raised her voice again as she stared at these dragon folk. “His family wants to meet him.”

“We are his family.” The voice rang from above. The woman’s voice was enticing to hear as her accent caused her words to sound as if they were dancing in the air.

 

Another child of Rhaegar’s sat next to him. Rhaenys was obviously more Dornish than Targaryen. They say she commanded lightning and could shock the sky. Her olive skin glowed in this court, and her black hair and eyes seemed exotic in such a land where everything was so bright. Her faded blue dress complimented her skin and seemed to glide in the air. She was commanding in her speech and demeanor. If the rumours were true, she would make a perfect ruler for Dorne. King’s Landing would be a waste for her.

 

She heard the boom of a dragon standing up. Her voice might normally be more pacifying and seductive to the ears, but it now just sounded shrill. “Jon will not go!”

She scanned the girl beside the Queen’s side. Her hair was a peerless silver while her eyes a striking violet. She was probably the same age as Robb or Jon, or maybe even a little younger. The white dress she wore embraced her body while her cape delicately hung from her shoulders. Her clothes were simple, but they looked luxurious on her. Her figure would tempt even the most virtuous of men. Beautiful would be an understatement. She was godly. And she could tell: the girl loved Jon. Not as family but as a man. If her attitude or actions did not scream it, her words did. _Jon._ There was familiarity, love, when she said his name. Targaryens never did care about purity if it involved relations between each other: purity truly meant preserving their godly blood to them in truth.

“I’m sorry, but I do not care what you say. I only care for Jon’s opinion.”

Despite the girl’s temper, she felt cold in this smothering heat. She wanted to fulfill this promise. Her father was gone now. Burned by the mortals. _(It was her fault. If she had never- No, there were too many ifs. Could haves. Should haves.)_ She would finish this duty.

 

Queen Rhaella looked at her as Joffrey once did. She did not care. It was better if the Queen thought of her as a fool. She thought of the dead King and wondered how long Rhaella played the fool to save her children. Aerys had only brought chaos and destruction to the land. So many mortals died because of him, died in his fires. Burnt by dragons.

“You have committed crimes against the South. You have already committed the worst against us all. We are not obliged to give Jaehaerys to you-”

She thought of Theon. His broken mind, his broken spirit. Lost in the rivers of the North. Her blood seemed to freeze. Her eyes gone cold. What crimes against the South? What good has the South ever done for her, her family, or for the North.

“It can always be worse, I promise that. But a promise has already been made.”

A shiver ran through the court. Sansa could feel ice begin to form in her soul. Any courtesy she had was lost. She was the Lady of Winterfell, ruler of the North in all but name, but, here, she was just a criminal. She now confronted them with the cold in her eyes, in her soul. She had become something else after the South. She used to be innocent, a lover of fairytales and flowers. Her mother thought she would become a goddess of Spring. But she made a deal and became the ruler of the dead instead. Death: gods never understood it. The fragility of life. She knew they feared her, feared the North. She was of death, of wind, of snow. They didn’t understand the Old Gods. They only blinded themselves with the follies of court.

“You have taken too much from the North. Lyanna promised. My parents promised. You gods have promised. And fate dictates. The North remembers.”

“You would put him in never-ending war with the Night King!? He has just returned from it-” Sansa turned to the girl of white. Daenerys Targaryen. She was to be future Queen, but she only saw this girl’s willfulness. They said her brother had been mad. Mad and stupid. It had been his cause of death, trying to make deals with the Dothraki. She hoped this girl was not as foolish as her brother.

“Your wars, not mine. It is the Lord Commander’s duty to serve the North. My brother Robb has fought in his stead while he grows. He can no longer carry this burden. He must return to his duties.”

“What duties? Where would he go? Is he not cursed by the Freys to remain there as long as he breathes?”

She heard Aegon’s tone of mockery. Aegon, the other child of Rhaegar’s, was the South’s masterpiece. He swayed the South with his endless parties and wine. He could inspire madness with a smile and unceasing devotion with a touch of hand. He was fair and pleasant and loved. Someone she would have been enchanted by before the South had ruined her. He did not have the same authoritative air his sister had, but he was charming. Men and women would fall to his feet in order to please him.

“He is guide to the dead now. Someone must guide them North of the Wall.”

Sansa could only regard him with indifference. Men like Aegon only felt power the more they twisted, poked, and prodded at you: they only wanted a reaction. She would not be anyone’s toy ( _never again_ ).

 

“One crippled, one lost in the wind, another stuck in the North. How fitting of a punishment for that whore.”

Cersei. Cersei was here. ( _of course she would be here, you fool, she is of the South, this is a feast for the South, you are trapped in the South-_ )

She judged her now as she masked her fear: Cersei was always beautiful. Blonde hair, green eyes. Gentle smile always decorated on her face. But behind her soothing beauty was sadism. Truly a lion. She inspired wars with her cruel words. She sparked the rage hidden deep in men’s hearts, and they all fought to their deaths for her. Her true love, however, was only war and power.

 

_"Your words will disappear. Your house will disappear. Your name will disappear. All memory of you will disappear."_

_Joffrey still looked down upon her; he still thought her too weak to fight him. Arrogance exuded off him even in death. Its smell was repugnant._

_“You’re only a stupid little girl. And I’m still a god.”_

_His beauty had tricked her so long ago. She thought him too beautiful to hate. How stupid she was._

 

Her attention turned to Cersei’s brother Jaime. He stood beside her: his beauty was infamous, and many folk, both women and men, fought for his attention. But he only cared for his sister, they said. She thought of his wife and her knight Brienne of Tarth, famous for her valour in battle. A god of oaths, a model for the most honourable knights. ( _There was no lost irony there._ )

 

“Brienne of Tarth gives her regards, Ser Jaime. She would not come.” She could see him blush. Was it shame? Love?

 

If the Lannisters were here- Margaery. The Rose of Highgarden. A friend but not a friend. Her brown hair cascaded in waves, and her doe eyes created a gentle innocence. Sweet and gentle, she thought. When flowers bloomed, she signalled for the beginning of harvest. Mortals worshipped her. And she loved them as much as a god could pretend. She could understand Joffrey’s love for her: she was so hard to hate. And Margaery was watching her. Just like her (in)famous grandmother, she was always calculating.

 

_“We would be sisters, you and I.”_

_Sansa regarded the girl before her, whose smile felt like a blessing in this cage. She held a rose: Sansa only had to accept._

 

Cersei’s familiar grumble interrupted her thoughts. “Little dove, why have you come? Everywhere in the world, they hurt little girls. Us gods have no mercy, that’s why we are gods.” Cersei’s beauty glowed through her rage. How she reminded Sansa of Joffrey.

 

_“You can try to love him, little dove. But love is a poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same.”_

_Fresh blood dripped from from Sansa’s skin, her knees numb from the jagged stone of Casterly Rock. Kneeling in front of Cersei, Sansa contemplated this woman; she admired her. For all her hate, she loved her children the most._

_“The more people you love, the weaker you are.”_

 

“I thought I loved your son once. And you. You loved your son so much.” Sansa could not help the cold fury that seared in her mind. Although Joffrey was by blood a Lannister, he was a Baratheon. The house was now gone, Joffrey was gone. A smile carved itself on to her face, no malice hidden, and ridicule laced itself into her words. ( _Ridicule at Cersei? Or was it at herself?_ ) “Do you even remember his name?”

“You took him away from me!” Cersei tried to lunge at her, but Sansa stayed away from her grasp. Sansa’s blood was boiling from the hate of this women. But she did not care, would not care.

“I gave him proper judgement. It is my duty as judge for the dead.”

 

Queen Rhaella seemed to burst at her act, eyes blazing into her. Dragons roared above. A fire began in the air, the heat tickling her. But she ignored her pain. She had suffered worse. Her skin had turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel. She would not surrender to this Queen.

“Enough- Sansa Stark! What judgement? You caused discord among the houses, killed Joffrey Lannister, killed Dany’s child, Viserion, in the war-”

“I am going with her. To the North.”

The court stilled. Her cousin had now moved: he was in front of her in an instant, seemingly guarding her from his family. Sansa froze. She truly thought that she would have to steal her cousin like how Arya described the Free Folk did, how they stole people in the quiet of the night.

 

“You will not take him.” Daenerys tried to command him. But she could tell from her cousin’s face that it was not her decision.

“I will go with her. We must honour a promise.” Sansa heard a jumble of protests erupt: she instinctively grabbed her cousin’s hand and squeezed it for comfort. He turned to look at her, but she avoided his gaze, willing her blush away.

“You will not. Not with this criminal.” Rhaegar interrupted now, no longer composed. Aegon and Rhaenys anxiously watched their half-brother. Aegon had a frown that marred his features, and Rhaenys fidgeted with her dress. Rhaella even seemed discontented despite her tranquil appearance. The girl in white was silently pleading with her cousin, but Jon ignored them all. He continued to gaze at Sansa.

 

“You have my answer.” He stated. She noticed that in the light of this court, his grey eyes had a hint of purple. She felt a flutter in her stomach. ( _No, don’t be a fool._ )

“I have your answer.” The words left her tongue before she could think. Bran was calling her: she could take Jon home.

 

So she took him, only leaving a gust of wind and snow behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will update slowly because I suck (lol). Each character is loosely based on a character or characters in Greek mythology. For instance, Sansa is a combination of Hades and Persephone. Jon, a combination of Ares and Nyx. Will get more backstory to each character as chapters go on so the plot will hopefully start to become more clear. Apologies for spelling mistakes, it's only me checking my writing so I'm prone to human error.


	2. Jon I

His mother was the moon. She was wild, running with the wolves in the night. His father was the sun. He painted the sky, dragons weaving through clouds. They were always chasing after each other, separated by the North and South. Their chase created balanced, and so they kept the realms together.

But his father broke it. ( _He heard the whispers that he ripped his mother from the sky. They said her tears created stars, glimmering for all to see._ )

 

_He asked about his mother once. Before he went off to war, before he knew what war meant, before he knew what war was. Seeking the grandeur of glory, he thought he would be able to find a home in the South’s accursed court._

_“What was she like?”_

_His father’s eyes lost themselves to the sky. He suddenly looked older, eyes duller with age._

_“Beautiful, and willful, and dead before her time.”_

 

They called the conflict between the North and South “Rhaegar’s Rebellion”. They sang about his father, how he ignited the war between North and South. The North only wanted their Goddess back, but Aerys wanted the North.

Aerys, Rhaella’s husband and his father’s brother, was a god of destruction, a watcher of time. He wanted the North to bend the knee, to serve the South. He tricked the Starks to leave their home for the hope of peace, for Jon’s mother, and he burned them. ( _Brandon and Rickard Stark were honourable. Too honourable for their own good._ ) Direwolves fought dragons; blood stained the ground, fire and ice clashed.

Aerys almost burned the entire North. However, Benjen Stark fled North of the Wall and pledged himself to the Night’s Watch. One by one, dragons and gods fell. Ice froze the ground, dragons perished, and Aerys was defeated. However, victory came at a price: Benjen Stark was to serve as Lord Commander for the Long Night against the Night King until his death. ( _Trapped North of the Wall._ ) And Lyanna had died before the war was over. She had left a son. ( _They called him a Stark in all but name._ ) Ned Stark ended the war for a promise between North and South. On the River of Styx, the South and North swore that Jaehaerys Targaryen ( _no, he was Jon Snow_ ) would return North to become Lord Commander to protect the North from the Long Night when he ascended to godhood. And in return, the North would be the South’s.

 

After his dragons had perished, Aerys lost another war: this time against himself. A prophecy stated that his own child would overcome him and conquer his throne. He grew paranoid, and Targaryen madness blackened his soul. In his delirium, he ate his own son ( _though Jon thought this was the only good thing the Mad King ever did_ ). Rhaella feared him for his lunacy, running to her birthplace of Dragonstone to protect her unborn child.

Rhaella had deceived her husband, hiding her daughter’s birth through the protection of the greatest storm of Westeros. It said that the sky rained blood and the winds bellowed an ungodly roar. Her daughter rebirthed dragons ( _Viserion, Rhaegal, Drogon_ ) through the fire, and she was left unburnt. Rhaella named her Daenerys, the mother of dragons.

Daenerys grew in Dragonstone, protected by her dragons. When she came of her age, she overthrew her father and made him disgorge her beloved ( _or more like idiot_ ) brother. Daenerys then claimed the throne for her and her mother. They called her the Conqueror. For she gained the throne but still wanted more. ( _It was her birthright, she told him. To rule the realms._ )

 

A new era had begun for the Targaryens.

 

It was a shame Viserys was full of bullshit. He truly was a God of Jealousy. He tried to become King through an arrangement with the Dothraki, who rightfully murdered the fucker. And for a failed usurper, Dany decided to go to war. The Pretender’s War”; started because of a false king. ( _No, he knew the truth: that she wanted to rule the Dothraki so she whispered sweet words into Rhaella’s ear. Fire and blood, she uttered._ )

 

_Aegon was drunk again, wrecking things in Jon’s already shoddy room. He had returned from one of his ostentatious parties: his face was flushed, meaning that he had drank himself to the brink of insanity. Jon poured water into a chalice to help him sober up, forcing it into his hand._

_“Must you go to war?”_

_Jon glanced at Aegon: he looked fine. Was he hallucinating? He knew Aegon hated him, blamed him for his mother’s death. (She was sick and left all alone. Everyone busy with war over her husband’s lover. Aegon just needed someone to blame. He loved Rhaegar more than anyone.)_

_“Yes.” (A lie.)_

_Aegon laughed (at what he still had no idea)._

_“If you leave, I’m losing a brother.”_

_Jon could only gape at his confession. Aegon didn’t seem bothered though, humming to himself._

_“I thought you hated me.”_

_Aegon turned the water into wine before taking a deep swig._

_“Doesn’t mean I want you to die. You’re a bastard, you know?”_

 

He was the most hated of the gods. Too sullen for court, too frightening for mortals. He belonged to the shadows. ( _A Stark in all but name._ )

 

_Rhaenys had woken him early in the morning: he heard the thunder wailing, rain tearing through the night. She was crying. And the storm bawled her grief. One of the Dornish, they called her- gods of earthshakers, water, and gold. Their seas dried when Rhaenys’ mother died, leaving behind only her precious Water Gardens. Rhaenys was always more water than fire. (A distorted reflection of her mother, she was more Targaryen in demeanor and had a wildfire in her that delicate Elia lacked.)_

_“There are whisper that the North might revolt. Ned Stark is dead.”_

_Rhaenys’ smile seemed poisonous; her body coiled around itself. Jon remain unperturbed as lightning struck her temple: the flash of light echoed and made her eyes seem like a viper’s._

_“Do you hate us? Is that why you leave?”_ _  
_ _“No.” (A lie.)_

_“Then why do you call yourself Snow?” (Because he was a bastard. Because he wanted to be a Stark, not a Targaryen.)_

 

They called him the White Wolf. An untamed warrior of quiet rage and savage command. He hunted them all. ( _A Stark in all but name._ )

 

_Dany was comfort. It had started as curiosity (no, loneliness), but he had learned the lines and softness of her body. Knew how to make her scream. Knew how her eyes blazed with pleasure. Knew how her cheeks flushed when he went down on her._

_“I command you not to go.”_

_He heard her silent plea. She still lay on their sheets, her hair a mess, and lips swollen from their dance. They said she was the most beautiful in Westeros- and in this moment, he wanted to never leave her side._

_“No one can command me to do anything, Your Highness.” (A lie.)_

 

There were rumors that he died ( _betrayed_ ), revived only by fire. ( _He had finally ascended to become a New God. A Targaryen._ ) His father pleaded for his return. And so they stole him from war.

 

_Ygritte was of the North. He loved her (she could have been home). But he betrayed her. (For his duty, he left her to die. Duty betrayed him in the end.)_

_She was so fragile. Humans were too weak. (No, it was he who was weak.) She was a free folk, not a slave; too good for war._

_“I do know some things. I know I love you. And I know you love me.” (It was never enough.)_

 

When he returned from the endless battles in Essos, he finally saw a glimpse of the North. Sansa Stark. Her hair ( _kissed by fire, that’s what Ygritte called it_ ) shrouded her from the endless radiance of court. She stood tall and had a lithe frame; her high cheekbones appeared as if they could cut glass. She wore a simple dress and a grey cloak, contradicting the shining brilliance of court.

They mumbled that she was more of the South than North, but he saw in her blue eyes that they held the marks of war. ( _A soldier._ ) Hauntingly somber. Endlessly hollow. Untold words scarred her.

When she finally looked at him, he saw a tint of blush: she seemed aghast ( _as if she saw a ghost_ ). He remembered now that she was only born in this new era of gods. She was too young to have such eyes.

But for her childishness and fear, he saw her suffering. A spark of apathy only capable for those who have felt agony. Cruelty concealed in her words, ferocity in her smile. ( _A hunter._ )

But why had she come for him? Promises meant nothing, on Styx or not, especially in the South. There were only better and better lies. He was not a Stark. ( _A Stark in all but name._ )

To be Lord Commander or not, it did not matter to him. ( _A lie._ )

War had become home for him. He only knew the stench of blood and death. He was haunted by the whispers ( _“You know nothing, Jon Snow”_ ), still felt the ghost of those who betrayed him ( _he was being torn apart, they were stabbing him, and he felt nothing because he was darkness, a shadow_ ).

But when she clutched his hand, it felt so small in his; soft against his rough, calloused hands. He couldn’t see her face, but her ear were tinted pink. ( _Kissed by fire._ )

So he went with her, let her steal him from all of this

 

(" _You saw her beauty, but not the iron underneath.”_ )

_He dreamed of a woman; rose petals spilled from her palms, dead and black. They blew into the night._

 

Jon awoke to snow.

"Do I have to call you Lady Stark now?"

His eyes were stitched shut by ice.

“Shut up!”

His lips were frozen.

“That was not very ladylike.”

The wind numbed his face.

“They might burn me for this.”

The cold stung his fingers.

"Not if they lose their heads first."

His head was killing him.

“Arya!”

“Please, quiet.”

 

Silence followed, and he only felt the bitter cold of the North. The wind sung as snow danced, and ice crunched in the distance.

( _Winter. Winter was here._ )

A howl interrupted his peace, and a frown etched into his face.

 

“He doesn’t look that Southern.” He opened his eyes to a girl who resembled him. Dark hair and grey eyes with a long face. ( _Stark features._ ) She wore dark tunic and pants, and her short stature contrasted her demeanor. Wildness wrought her features, and dirt smeared her skin. She wore a smirk, clearly amused by his situation.

“Dolt, can you get up?”

He could feel his cheeks flush, the wind laughing in his ear. He wanted to kill someone. Something. Himself.

“Leave him be.” A man emerged, wheeled in by who he suspected was Brienne of Tarth. He appeared quite tall despite being trapped in a wheelchair. He seem detached from the stonewalls; his dark eyes were eerie, watchful yet distant. He had the Stark face ( _but he looked like something other_ ).

“Welcome to Winterfell, White Wolf.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a little short, but I'll be busy with school work as classes are starting to pick up. Enjoy!


	3. Arya I

Nymeria was on the hunt. Her pack had already hunted the rest of the little birds. But this one was quick. Arya’s bow was strapped to her side, arrows ready. She was following her prey. The little bird couldn’t have flown far. Arya could still smell fear.

 

_Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Quick as a snake. Calm as still water. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Strong as a bear. Fierce as a wolverine. Fear cuts deeper than swords. The man who fears losing has already lost. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Fear cuts deeper than swords._

 

_“You have the eyes of a wolf and a taste for blood.”_

 

Jon had given her her own Needle to practice with. ( _"Stick them with the pointy end."_ ) She balanced the blade in her hand. He had gotten Gendry to forge it from Valyrian steel. Gendry had gone from following her around to following Jon. Jon didn’t seem to mind though. She had thought that he had a stick up his ass when she met him. But Sansa and Bran were right, he was no Southerner.

 

_“You’re avoiding him. Why?”_

_Jon looked like a lost boy whenever Sansa was around. But he would still ask about her, be courteous around her. It was her sister’s dumb idea to bring the man to Winterfell, risking the North against the South again. But Sansa had only shown polite indifference._

_“There are too many souls to judge.”_

_Her sister seemed too concerned with the documents in her hand at the moment._

_“Don’t lie to me.”_

_Her sister looked pained, lost even. Her cheeks flushed bright like when she was a child and Old Nan scolded her for sneaking too many lemon cakes._

_“Doesn’t he remind you of father? A man of honour. Brave and gentle and strong.”_

 

Ned Stark was a god of the North wind. Her father could freeze air with his breath. Catelyn Stark was a goddess of magic, close to nature and ghosts. Together they ruled the North, ruled it under the guidance of the Old Gods. ( _Gods were only puppets of stranger forces. They were of nature: wind, snow, ice, fire, water..._ )

 

_“You have a wildness in you, child. The 'wolf blood,' my father used to call it. Lyanna had a touch of it, and my brother Brandon more than a touch. It brought them both to an early grave. Lyanna might have carried a sword if my lord father had allowed it. You remind me of her sometimes. You even look like her.”_

 

They were almost perfect. They loved each other deeply, and they loved their children. They wanted to watch their children grow old.

 

_Arya was crying. Her father held her, and she felt so small. But she knew she was safe so she didn’t care._

 

The South stole that happiness from them. Joffrey commanded the mortals to burn Ned Stark. Arya didn’t see it, she had fled by then. Sansa never spoke about it if she did.

 

_“Everyone who knew his face is dead.”_

_Sansa and her were in the crypts. Her sister had aged just as Arya had. But there was something stagnant in her beauty. As if she were frozen in time._

_“We’re not.”_

 

Arya remembered the journey home. She had to be “no one”. ( _“I was. I'm not now.”_ ) Only her sister had welcomed her back, changed but the same.

 

_“We all lie.”_

 

For their suffering, Robb declared a rebellion. They declared him a King. The North loved him; he was honourable like his father and dutiful like his mother. Robb had been a god of justice and wisdom before his forced exile. He understood the strategic art of war better than any being: he was a ruthless opponent and too dangerous of an enemy. He won every battle, and the South feared him.

There were too many untold promises of what he could have done, what he could have accomplished.

 

The South had to orchestrate his fall. Robb was betrayed by the Freys: they killed mother by cutting off her head. They mutilated her face beyond recognition. Robb almost died.

But the Old Gods saw it all. Their suffering angered the gods; they caused anyone who saw Catelyn Stark’s face to turn into stone, mortal or god. ( _Medusa. Lady Stoneheart. Too many names._ ) The Old Gods trapped Robb North of the Wall to save him.

 

The war had almost been lost. But Sansa had returned home. ( _A shadow of who she was._ ) Rhaella had rode in on Viserion, one of those brutish dragons, to force a surrender. Arya shot it down with her bow and arrow. Sansa froze the dragon before it could even reach Moat Cailin.

 

Nymeria howled. Arya drew her bow, took aim, and shot the little bird. Despite its slenderness, Needle felt heavy in her hand. Arya tested the blade against the wind. Gendry did fine work, and Jon had appropriately considered her stature.

 

Jon had been Robb’s only company recently. They had become true brothers. Jon had become an accomplice in Robb’s tomfoolery, and they often trained together. ( _They were inseparable._ ) Jon had written recently that Robb had almost gotten him killed after Fat Tom discovered who dumped snow on him. He had also noted Robb’s tendency in streaking when drunk. ( _That tidbit was something that she could have gone on living without knowing._ ) Jon was learning how to be Lord Commander from Robb, and after Jon got into situated, then Robb would become the deliverer to the worst of souls to the North of the Wall.

 

Her brother was finally strong enough to visit Winterfell, to see his family again. Robb had suffered. Her other brothers had suffered as well. ( _How_ _the Old Gods were cruel._ )

 

Rickon would forever be a boy. Ramsay Bolton had tried to hunt him and his wolf, Shaggydog, to keep them as trophies. The Old Gods had protected Rickon and Shaggydog by transforming him into the wind so the Bolton bastard could never catch him.

Sansa shattered Ramsay and threw him into Tartarus. Punished to always be eaten by his hounds, feeling every bite and tear. She weeped for her brother until her tears had frozen the North. Arya had hunted and slaughtered all the Boltons for their treachery. ( _Justice._ ) But Sansa had become more cruel, less forgiving. She closed Winterfell from outsiders.

 

Rickon had met Jon, but he would always have to leave when the gust came in. But one could always hear his laughter in the breeze when his cousin played with him. Bran even seemed more livelier. He had never been the same since the fall.

 

_“Don’t fly too close to the sun.”_

_Bran had given her a toothy grin. He held his wings, made of wax and feathers._

_“You sound like mother. Or Sansa. Don’t know what’s worst.”_

_He had cackled in the way dumb boys did as he slipped on his wings, ready to climb the sky._

_Arya could still hear his scream when he plummeted into cold stone._

 

Although he still acted as the Three-Eyed Raven, telling prophecies and always watching, she could see fragments of the Bran she remembered. Interest when Jon spoke of the lands he visited. Curiosity of knights when Jon spoke of war.

 

_“What happened to her? You should be able to see it.”_

_“I can’t.”_

_“What do you mean you can’t?”_

_“Sansa ate the forbidden fruit. And then there’s nothing.”_

 

There were whispers about Sansa, and even she didn’t know what to believe. ( _“There was a game I used to play. A game of faces.”_ ) When her sister had returned, she had lost something of herself. It had been replaced with something ancient, something terrifying. ( _But_ _a lady, she was and always will be_.)

 

_“Catch the little birds. We don’t want an infestation of them in our home.”_

 

Arya took her needle and laced it into her prey. A shame. The girl was terrible at spying. Varys was naive if he thought the girl could hide from wolves. Now that she had caught her, Arya had to send a warning.

 

_“The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”_

 

Gendry was waiting for her when she got back to Winterfell. He had on his goofy smile that only meant trouble. Although stupidly handsome, his stubbornness was what made him nice-looking to her. She noticed his new creation, it was very… ugly would be the kind thing to say. An innovation, he said. What it was was a load of bullshit, really. It was weirdly curvy like a flaccid snake. Even Brienne of Tarth, who had been busy training Podrick, looked repulsed. Her expression could be kindly said to be exasperation, but Podrick even looked sheepish at Gendry’s invention.

 

Arya had nothing but respect for the lady knight. Although a Lannister in name, she had only married Jaime to uphold her vows for the dragon queen. She could hold her fight against many, strength rivaling the greats. A giant even among the gods, she had a stature that a warrior would envy. The South had ridiculed her, but they were fools. Brienne was a true knight.

 

“Ignore him. He's just stupid. He likes to polish helmets and beat on swords with hammers.”

 

“Where’s Sansa? She talking to Sam?” Sam was Winterfell’s bookkeeper, a god of words. Sansa valued his knowledge and often went to him for advice. Sam could concoct the most elaborate stories, a favorite companion of many in the realm. Jon even brooded less around the man. His wife Gilly, a nymph of flowers, was a freefolk, one of those who lived North of the Wall. She was a pretty girl, good and kind. Both were well-regarded, even without Sansa’s favor.

 

“She’s visiting Theon.” Arya couldn’t help the frown that formed. She didn’t understand them. Sansa and Reek. No, he was Theon. Theon had been one of those who helped orchestrate Robb’s downfall. They had found him broken in Ramsey’s torture room. ( _“Reek.”_ ) Arya was glad for his suffering. But Sansa must have seen something, for she had conserved his soul by connecting him to the rivers of the underworld. He was a confidant of hers, privy to Sansa’s ever elusive thoughts.

 

She found Sansa near Acheron. Reek was whispering something into her ear. Sansa seemed attentive, her hair veiling her face. A tint of pink colored her cheeks, her eyes flickered with mirth. The picture seemed too intimate to intrude upon. She coughed slightly, and Sansa shifted to face her. Reek dissolved back into the waters before either could speak.

 

She shivered at Sansa’s stare, inquisitive and tired.

“The little birds have been rid of. What was Re-” She paused, noticing Sansa’s disapproval in the arch of her brow. “What was Theon saying?’

“He told me something interesting.” Her sister’s face now held a silent smile. A faint viciousness disturbed her features. ( _A wolf hunting._ )

“Oh, what?”

“He had to row someone interesting over. The South will be in chaos.”

 

Her sister was about to make a move, it seemed. Arya sighed; her Needle could use the practice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this instead of my criminology essay. I truly only hurt myself.
> 
> Sidenote; childish reason, but the only reason I got into Game of Thrones is because my name is Briana, and it's kind of close to Brienne. So I watched the show. Very dumb but fun!


	4. Rhaenys I

_Dorne had a dry heat that Rhaenys craved. Uncle Oberyn was picking fruit for dessert. She loved the groves the most in Dorne. Vivid in color, exotic to the eye. Wines that Aegon adored. Not at all like the glister of King’s Landing. The Dornish didn’t suit its harshness._

_Her mother was of sand and sea. She didn’t have many memories of her mother before she was sick. (But she knew her mother loved the ocean. She could see her mother humming, toes in the sand, the sound of waves crashing in the distance.)_

_Uncle Oberyn had been fond of his sister and thus had fostered her children during the war. Rhaenys was like the Dornish, but she also wasn’t. Aegon, to be honest, was more like their Dornish cousins than she was. She wasn’t like Arianne, a goddess of wealth and fortune. Arianne was too captivated by meaningless things, things that faded away. Although a calculating man, her uncle Doran, a god of light, was too passive for politics._

_Rhaenys liked Uncle Oberyn the best. He was a sandstorm, fearsome and stubborn where the Dornish lacked. She peeled her blood orange, tracing the lines._

_“Why doesn’t Jon get to go back home?” The sun glared into her eyes; Uncle Oberyn stood before her: silent, imposing._

_“Those Northerners are savages. Brutes.” He spit into the land, shadows sheltered his face._

_“My brother-”_

_“Your half-brother, a bastard.” She accidentally squeezed her orange, its red juices seeping into her dress. Rhaenys suddenly didn’t like Uncle Oberyn._

_“He’s just a child.” Brooding little Jon, hiding in corners. Shy at any attention._

_“His blood makes him dangerous. One day, you’ll see.”_

 

Jon had left them. Her father was rotting away in his room, denying reality. His face had been wrecked by his upset, eyes dull and chilling. Rhaenys couldn’t recognize her father. He refused the truth: that Jon was gone. ( _And he won’t come back this time._ )

 

_Father never cried. He conducted himself nobly and with a graceful composure. He didn’t cry when mother died or when Lyanna died. He was bawling now that Jon had gone to war. He burned brightly, almost mournfully._

 

Aegon had been even more harsh in court, snarky and unbearable. Wine had become more bitter, people more madder at his celebrations.

 

_Aegon was being punished: he was to be whipped in front of the court after reflecting on his actions in his chambers for a fortnight. Aegon had lured their brother with a promise of sparring together, but he instead trapped the boy in the net and stranded him in the wilderness, to fight against monsters and man. Rhaenys could not agree with his actions (indifference was better than tormenting the boy). Aegon had gone too far this time: Jon had not spoken to any of them, even when tempted by Dany to go play with the dragons. His pretty face more broody than usual, eyes darker, lacking in any of the lightness a child should have._

_She stood in front of his door now, fully intending to chide Aegon on behalf of her little brother. She lifted her hand to knock, only to freeze at the sound of sobbing._

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“Stop it. You don’t even know what you’re saying sorry for.”_

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“Shut up! You’re a dragon! Stop saying sorry!”_

_She silently cracked the door open, peeking at the play in front of her. Aegon was blushing (it wasn’t the wine), hugging their brother. Jon only stood there repetentedly as if he had committed the crime._

_It seemed her lecture was no longer necessary._

 

Dany had been quiet. A terrifying sort of quiet. Her anger had unsettled the court; her fury seemed to be attempting to burn even the sky down. Only Jon could cool her anger, but he was not here. ( _“Dany, you will be my Queen-”_ )

 

_She was ice (no, death). Sansa Stark was an something archaic; they all felt it. Their world seemed unbalanced as Lady Stark’s coldness seeped through her smile and their walls. She had an unworldly elegance in every slight movement. A threat of finality in her words (was that what death was like for mortals?) cursed the peace of their lulling vision (an eternal illusion)._

_However, there was something alluring in her eyes. Filled with unending sadness yet something hopeful, the promise of something new._

_Rhaenys had felt a chill in her bones. She seeked Jon with her eyes to assuage the worries nipping at her heart._

_But he was only looking at her._

 

Her handmaid’s whispers broke her anxious thoughts, the implication of the information causing her to disturb the plaits that the girl was trying to carefully construct.

“Shireen is dead!?” Rhaenys couldn’t help the shock ripping her normally velvety voice. Stannis had been an important supporter to the throne ( _no, he always wanted more_ ), but this atrocity couldn’t go unpunished. He had only been a distant relative from the previous household, and Dany made him heir to its remains. The previous household had been cursed by Lady Stark to be nameless, fragmented forever after the false stag died ( _his name, no one could remember his name_ ). Was she punishing them again? Was she not just satisfied with taking Jon?

Loras and Renly could maybe replace him if the worst were to happen as Renly had some blood of the house and Loras had the power to assert his claim. But they both were incompetent in any matter of ruling. Oh, if only Margaery had been Renly’s love instead. Margaery would be a more preferable option, competent for court and power to her name.

 

The world was collapsing around her; she felt sick. Everything seemed so fragile now.

The braid was almost done. Rhaenys studied her reflection: she seemed gaunt despite the bronze of her skin and richness of her eyes. Maybe she could be like father and brother, hide from reality. ( _Brood like her little brother did_.)

No, she could only seek Dany’s company, seek any sort of consolation now and pretend that her family was still together.

 

_Dany struggled with the delicateness needed to create the intricate braid that she aspired. Rhaenys’ head felt sore from all the pulling, and her hair wasn’t faring much better. She could feel the child’s wariness mounting in the movements of her hand before the girl’s unsightly outburst._

_“I’ll never braid again.”_

_Rhaenys felt the laughter bubbling inside her. Dany’s eyes only seemed to vent her displeasure, the heat rising in the girl’s blood to express her vexation._

_“Princesses don’t need to braid hair, cousin. That’s what servants are for.”_

 

She felt herself running before she could scold herself for her improper display. Her surroundings seemed of little consequence as she begged for even a strand of Dany’s striking silver hair.

 

She finally found her with Varys: Dany seemed tiny among her guards ( _innocent, almost_ ), but she held more power than them all. Tyrion was not hovering over her cousin for once, which Rhaenys could not tell if that was good or not considering the circumstances.

 

“Davos Seaworth has abandoned Stannis.” Varys looked neutral to the grim news. Rhaenys thought Varys’ composure terrifying. His ability to control his little birds disgusted her, but one would be blind to neglect his usefulness.

And Stannis was done. Davos’ abandonment of the man meant that faith could no longer be kept to Stannis’ house.  “Davos has gone North I’ve last heard.”

 

“What news do you have of the North?” ( _What of Jon?_ )

 

“Regretfully, my little birds have been slain. The only one that returned had her eyes removed and her mouth laced together. I know nothing of the North.” Varys seemed to have the decency to seem ashamed for his failure.

 

“Lady Stark has been too meddlesome in the South.” It seemed her cousin had found her resolve.

 

“My Highness, Lady Stark may not be why-” Varys looked close to panicked as he he could be, words spilling out of the man.

 

“I will answer injustice with justice.” It was a command. Rhaenys’ hope.

 

She finally willed her voice to slither into their conversation.

“We need Jon.” Dany smiled at her intrusion, and Varys seemed to fade into the grandness of the halls. “He is ours.”

Her family was miserable. Those Starks had taken her brother. ( _Fire and Blood._ )

 

Dany had wrapped Rhaenys in a hug with urgency before her tears could fall ( _she truly had never felt such relief_ ). She cooed in her ear, and a warmth blossomed in her chest.

“My dear cousin, do not fret. We will get Jon back home.”

 

She nuzzled her head in Dany’s hair, tightening her hold on the girl. They would fix this. Together.

“How? Rhaella will never agree.”

 

Dany’s voice held a gentleness laced with venom.

_“Why do they call Dany that?”_

_Jon seemed apathetic, but she knew better. Hesitation wrought his face._

_“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”_

_Oh, he was always such a bad liar._

_“A conqueror. It is our right to rule.”_

_Jon had never seemed so foreign to her in that moment. Ice was built in his soul, but fire ignited his eyes. He seemed to disappear while shadows marred his face._

_“Under whose right?”_

“Fire and Blood, cousin. We will take the North.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon's coming up next. I hate midterms. womp womp.


	5. Jon II

Jon felt like an outsider: these Starks were all peculiar creatures. The North was always guarded against strangers: Starks and their houses were secretive, protective of the Old Gods and their powers. ( _There were rumours of course._ )

 

He was busy with hunting, or pretending to be at least: Robb had sent him out to gather food as he had been getting “listless”. Longclaw seemed heavy in his grip, and he didn’t know how Robb thought hunting rabbits and such would help him.

 

He had saved Jeor Mormont in his first encounter with the wights, the soldiers of the Night King, in what feels like a lifetime ago. He had fought a war before, but these soldiers weren’t men but of dead and of magic. But war was war. Longclaw was the problem. In gratitude, Joer had given him the sword, and it was a burden more than a blessing. He had already been suffocated by either curious glances or disdainful stares from his black brothers. ( _A Targaryen._ ) But now when they sparred with him, they aimed to humiliate him, break him. Robb made light of their actions, but he heard their whispers, none at all kind.

 

He missed the stillness and solitude of Winterfell.

 

_“What is that?” It looked so delicate, an odd twisted thing, tethered to the bush in the Glass Gardens. The flowers around them were flourishing, but this one seemed so lonely._

_“A winter rose. Not yet in bloom.” Sansa’s face cutely contorted, her cheeks seemed rosier in the odd heat of this garden. For an instant, there was a twinkle in her eyes; they looked like the finest glass. “The songs say your father gifted one to Aunt Lyanna.”_

_“Not yet in bloom?’_

_“It’s sleeping, they say. A magical thing. One prick and you’ll be bound to it.”_

 

Although Sansa Stark did not look like a Northerner, she bled and breathed for it. Her rule over both dead and living in the North was absolute. They say she was like her mother: her blue eyes could discern the naked truth from falsities, with red hair that disturbed the quiet peace of her delicate features. Just and honorable, yet prideful and honest.

( _“Family, Duty, Honor”_ )

The North loved her. And it was so easy to love Sansa Stark.

 

_“The Tullys are rivers: wild and of magic, closest to nature. Not dependable although loyal.”_

_She had snuck into his room again, wearing a Qartheen dress that exposed her breast. Politics seemed to consume her mind and her body throughout their coupling, but Jon had only cared to satisfy her, never caring for such vain endeavors._

_He watched Dany play with one of her endless trinkets, this time a silver bell. It’s melodious ringing caused his spine to shiver. (A call for blood, for victory.)_

_“The Tullys help the Starks control the rivers of the Underworld so they have the North’s protection. But if the Starks were to fall, they will devote themselves to us, to the South again.”_

_He had thought her foolish to believe such a thing, that devotion meant servitude. But he had not cared, for her ideas seemed like fantasies. The Starks were the North: how would they fall?_

 

Robb Stark had been a frightening figure in Jon’s mind. A boy who had and could beat Tywin Lannister, a god of strategy and a logistician at his core, as if it was just a game and not war. ( _The Young Wolf._ ) He had only been bested through the art of politics, betrayal by his own. He had expected disregard from the Northerner.

 

_Aegon had abandoned him, and he wasn’t coming back: he felt faint, blood sullying his clothes. He could hear the roars of unholy beings, the screams of terrified men. He had to be a dragon to survive: fire and blood, he had chanted, as if it were a prayer that could save him._

_Fire scorched his soul._

_Ice chilled his blood._

_Darkness aimed to claim him._

_But his brother had returned;_

_“Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Kill the boy and let the man be born.”_

 

But he had become a true brother for Jon. He had been surprised by the boy’s Tully appearance: blue eyes an imitation of his sister’s. Robb Stark was of a strong build, broad but surprisingly fast in combat. He appreciated Jon’s skill with the sword, calling him “White Wolf” in jest and recognition. Robb would soon take his role at Acheron, a guide to souls in crossing the river, and Jon would settle in at Castle Black to fulfill his duties as Lord Commander.

 

Arya had also become a sister, his favorite to talk to among the Starks. She had written him frequently, most of it coming out as fragmented and nonsense. He had been especially confused at her last letter describing catching little birds being a difficult business. He hadn’t seen any birds except the occasional raven and crow. She had told him to trust the onion, and despite his continuing perplexity of her words, he trusted her.

 

_Rhaenys had never seemed to pay him much attention, preferring the company of Dany or Aegon. She always seemed distant: Dorne was her home instead of this wretched court._

_But she would always spoil him with exotic things and tell him of her stories abroad. He never knew what a mother was, but she was the closest he had._

 

Arya had also sent word of Ghost, who never seemed to leave Lady Stark’s side.

 

_“Ghost is your companion. He was born for you as you were born for him.”_

_The direwolf was as white as snow, red eyes like the faces on the weirwood heart tree. It was larger than the other wolfs, but he was like his name for he was silent as a shadow as he stalked through the woods._

_‘He seems to be more yours than mine.” The wolf was attached to the lady, unwilling to disappear from her side. The animal turned its gaze to Jon, and he felt something call for him (“Snow”)._

_“He has been a comfort of mine after Lady died.” He saw Lady Stark smile, a true smile. When she brushed his fur, he felt a ghost of a touch across his spine. (He is yours as you are his.)_

 

He was bonded to a dragon of Daenerys’s, Rhaegal. But dragons were capricious and needed to be trained. It was different from his bond with Ghost: they were each other’s. Where he was, Jon was to.

 

_He was dreaming._

_He could see a girl with red hair. He heard the faint sounds of crying. The child wasn’t praying, but she seemed to be seeking something. She looked so young, under a great oak covered in smokeberry vines; shadows and the night obscured her face. She seemed alone, a stranger in these lands. (Lost, looking for home.)_

_“Ghost.”_

_He had awoken to blinding light: father seemed exhausted, Aegon was throwing his things, Rhaenys was swearing up a storm, and Dany was holding his hand. He was apparently bedridden for the night._

_He had survived his sickness: a miracle (warging, Bran had called it)._

 

He knew she avoided him. She hid behind excuses, probably unwilling to be around a Targaryen. ( _The North remembers._ )

He had been close to death once, but it was different. ( _And all was black and still, and black and cold, and black and dead, and black._ )

He feared it, feared her.

 

He’s startled by the sound of footsteps, but shock of who it is causes him to drop his sword.

It’s Stannis’ Onion Knight ( _trust the onion_ ); he had met him in court before, when he was a boy. He had been enraptured by his hands, what he gave up to become someone against the cruelty of court. They had taken the first joints of his fingers on his left, a price to pay to serve Stannis, his loyalty undying. He had admired the man for his plain honesty, but he now seem defeated, older.

“How did you-?”

‘Lord Robb told me you’d be here.”

He can’t help the silence that stretches, confronted by this remnant of the past, of the South. ( _But you’re also of the South, a Targaryen._ )

“Lady Sansa has made me your attendant; in return, Shireen will be allowed to rest in Isles of the Blessed.”

“Shireen’s dead? How did she-?”

“Burned by Stannis. Lady Stark suspects the South will move against the North.”

A sigh involuntarily escaped him. More trouble, it seems.

“We will go to Winterfell together, convene with Lady Stark.”

Death was final, for god and man. But it seemed to always haunt the living.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's next? I don't know! I have so much work to do though, and instead of doing it, I wrote this. Save me lol.


	6. Jaime I

That damn sword haunted him. Oathkeeper; he had never given it to her. But the wench had left him. To protect that Stark girl.

 

_His son’s betrothed was a delicate thing. But she was a lovely thing; willing to satisfy, wanting to be loved. She could please the Stranger to bend the knee to her._

_And they trapped her in their cage, making her a songbird to sing their songs._

 

Jaime had married his wife at her insistence to fulfill the promise made by the Queen ( _it was meant to humiliate the lions_ ). She had challenged him to a fight for his hand in marriage. Not the proposal any man would want, especially as a god of beauty: it was almost insulting.

 

_“Marry me.”_

_“No, I’m not insane.”_

_“Marry me or die. Your choice.”_

 

He had sparred with her to humiliate her.

She was stronger than he was. It had scared him. ( _No, why lie? He liked being subdued by her._ ) She fought with discipline and was deadly. Her sword knew how to kill and would with a certain grace. ( _A woman after his own heart._ )

So even after they had married, he sparred with her to challenge ( _no, flirt with_ ) her.

 

Training with Bronn, a patron of sellswords, is closest to a fight he gets now. He appreciated the man’s candor although that appreciation easily can turn to annoyance.

The Targaryen bastard had been good with a sword, he heard. Wanted to be a knight or warrior or something. But no, he was a Stark bastard now? They had finally claimed the boy.

 

_“That boy over there: Jon Snow.”_

_He thought he had seen Ned Stark’s ghost. Northern face cloaked by a dragon’s brand._

_Nothing to notice, a shadow of the past._

 

They no longer called Jaime a knight.

 

“ _How can you still count yourself a knight, when you have forsaken every vow you ever swore?"_

_"So many vows...they make you swear and swear. Defend the queen. Obey the queen. Keep her secrets. Do her bidding. Your life for hers. But obey your father. Love your sister. Protect the innocent. Defend the weak. Respect the gods. Obey the laws. It's too much. No matter what you do, you're forsaking one vow or the other.”_

_The light was so dim that Jaime could scarcely see his new wife, though they stood a scant few feet apart. In this light she could almost be a beauty, he thought. In this light she could almost be a knight._

 

“Tyrion.”

“Well, isn’t it the golden son?”

His imp brother with mismatched eyes of green and black, eyes untrusting and could stare down giants. His small stature did not do him justice as his mind was perceptive and full of wit. ( _"Tyrion is Tywin’s son.”_ )

“Careful, I’m the last friend you got.”

He got a chuckle in response ( _better than nothing_ ).   
“Please, I need to talk to Cersei.”

“Cersei?”

He never thought his brother a fool. But he was starting to.

“Yes, I’m about to step into a room with the most murderous woman in the world who’s already  tried to kill me twice, that I know of.”

“Dire circumstances?”

“Yes, Shireen’s dead.”  
“Oh.”

“Yep, big oh.”

 

_“Come at once. Help me. Save me. I need you now as I have never needed you before. I love you. I love you. I love you. Come at once.”_

_Her (their) children were dead. His sister need him to be her knight, to protect her. How would fighting a war against the Young Wolf do anything?_

 

“You don’t seem to know Cersei. Why would she care?”

“Cersei is as gentle as King Maegor, as selfless as Aegon the Unworthy, as wise as Mad Aerys. She never forgets a slight, real or imagined. She takes caution for cowardice and dissent for defiance. And she is greedy. Greedy for power, for honor, for love.”

“Then why come, imp?”

Cersei appeared radiant. She was and always will be a lion. She seemed to steal from the sun to brighten her golden hair. Viciousness carved itself in her emerald-green eyes, always looking for prey.

“I’m giving you a gift.”

The wine in her hand glinted as she swirled in false contemplation.

“Is it your head?”

“No, Sansa Stark’s.”

Cersei’s anger roared in the air; the blood scorched in his body. Even Jaime was not foolish enough to assume Tyrion would lie about this. His heart couldn’t help its shutter. ( _Brienne._ )

“I ought to have shown her to the black cells as the daughter of a traitor, but instead I made her part of mine own household. She shared my hearth and hall, played with my own children. I fed her, dressed her, tried to make her a little less ignorant about the world, and how did she repay me for my kindness? But before I am done with her, I promise you, she will be singing to the Stranger, begging for his kiss.”

 

“She is death herself now so how would she beg to the Stranger?”

The dragon queen emerged from the sky, landing with grandeur, surrounded by dragons and their fire. A true godly vision. If Jaime were a true imbecile, he would have bowed to such a sight. But image, like words, meant nothing, only true power could make one bow.

“Have you come begging for death?”

“Cersei, all men must die, but we are not men.”

The dragon princess painted on a smile that made Jaime shiver. Her beauty could be regarded as unparalleled, but he saw the emptiness in it.

“Would you like to put on a play, Light of the West?”

“Why should I trust someone who shelters a kinslayer that deserves death?” ( _Father, dead over the shitter._ )

“Because Sansa Stark has stolen from both of us. And I am the only one who can give her to you. A Lannister always pays her debts, does she not?”

 

_“In my experience, girls like her don’t live long.” (Just like Myrcella.)_

_Her blue eyes were beautiful and harsh with a blonde mop of hair._

_“Then you don’t know Sansa Stark.”_

_“You’ll die for her.”_

_“Young or old, a true knight is sworn to protect those who are weaker than himself, or die in the attempt.”_

 

Fuck, he really was going to protect Sansa Stark.

( _His last chance at honor._ )

That damn wench.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this one's short, but the next one is longggg. It'll be Sansa, Tyrion, and then Bran.
> 
> Also why did my one-shot do better than this series? Life is full of mysteries. I'm not bitter. (Okay, lowkey, I am, but I also find it hilarious.)


	7. Sansa II

Cersei was dead. She had to leave, to take away the woman who had tormented her. ( _The woman who she learned a great deal from._ ) But the wind urged her not to go, the woods bristled in warning. She felt Ghost nuzzling against her neck, guarding her against the cold.

 

_“The South is no place for a Stark.”_

_Jon appeared meek, pleading even._

_“I know. I leave the North with you.”_

_He kissed her forehead; it burned where he had touched. It felt strange. But his lips were soft, and his beard scratched her nose._

_“For protection. Take him. Take Ghost.”_

 

Jon was everything she hoped he be. ( _Brave and Gentle and Strong._ ) How he reminded her of father. He had become family: Rickon’s playmate, Robb’s brother, Bran’s hero. Even Arya had taken to him. She knew Arya had been mistrustful because of the whispers, not helped by her and Bran’s unwillingness to explain why they were bringing a dragon North.

 

_“Promise me, Bran. No one can know.”_

 

Casterly Rock had been her prison in the South. Hard and unmovable as it was formidable, its jagged stones protected untold riches. She had been Cersei’s toy. Joffrey’s doll, to beat and to play with. Tywin had always just watched the spectacle. She had been repelled by his ugliness, but Tyrion Lannister had been the only one kind to her.

 

_“I am malformed, scarred, and small, but... abed, when the candles are blown out, I am made no worse than other men. In the dark, I am the Knight of Flowers. I am generous. Loyal to those who are loyal to me. I’ve proven I’m no craven. And I am cleverer than most, surely wits count for something. I can even be kind. Kindness is not a habit with us Lannisters, I fear, but I know I have some somewhere.”_

_She had looked at the man and saw no dwarf. No, he was a giant, better than these terrible New Gods, who valued nothing of worth._

_“Run Sansa Stark. Run and never let them catch you.”_

_The poison still tainted her hands, her heart wild in her chest._

_Joffrey was dead._

_And this man was offering her escape._

 

Compared to the Vale, Casterly Rock could be seen as kind. The Vale had an abundance of fertile lands, and its mountains were harsh. She felt slightly alone from the lands around her. But its winters had reminded her of home.

Robin Arryn was a curious boy, who had a bad habit of building mazes. She knew the boy was destined for cruelty, for no one had taught him to behave otherwise. And Aunt Lysa must have known that she was Sansa Stark, not a bastard girl, even when Sansa didn’t know herself.

 

_Lysa was plucking her hair, trying to drag her to the Moon Door._

_“I won’t let you take him from me, not when your mother did the same. He’s mine, and no one else shall have him.”_

_She remembered no mother. Her father had kissed her. He wasn’t her father though._

_She was Alayne Stone. But she wasn’t._

_Then if she was no bastard, who was she?_

 

Sansa had only visited King’s Landing once. They had imprisoned father in black cells of the Red Keep. Treason, they had justified. ( _Treason of being of the North._ ) They had killed him soon afterward. Joffrey had then broken their betrothal as being kin of a criminal would taint the Baratheon name. She was glad to be free of the arrogant Lannister. To be tied forever to such a boy, she would have rather died before that happened. ( _And she did. Lady did as well._ )

 

_Petyr cut the pomegranate from the heart tree in two with his dagger, offering half to her.“You should try and eat, my lady.”_

_“I’ll be able to go home?” Sansa grasped her half. She tightened her grip and felt juices drip down her hand. (What did Olenna say? “No, don’t blush, with your hair, it makes you look like a pomegranate.”)_

_“You must miss your father terribly, I know. Lord Eddard was a brave man, honest and loyal... but quite a hopeless player.” He brought the fruit to his mouth with the knife. “In King’s Landing, there are two sorts of people. The players and the pieces.”_

_She held her silence. To take the forbidden fruit: it was her only way home. To stop being a pawn in these cruel gods’ games. She knew the consequences for gods like her, those who were weak and brittle. If not worthy, she would break._

_But home. She could go home._

_So she brought the fruit to her lips and bit into it. She had died when she tasted it: it had tasted of something other. Something of snow and ice and cold. Something like white shadows, clinging to her tongue._

_She had thought it was bitter yet sweet._

 

Jon Snow had fallen sick. ( _Snow. A bastard’s name._ ) So she had not seen the royal family, all preoccupied that the boy might die. No one could pay attention to a traitor’s daughter. She had used the boy’s sickness to pray at the heart tree, to witness the forbidden fruit that horrified the gods. Her tears shed unwillingly, mourning all that she had lost. She had met Ghost then, and she had wondered what had brought him so far South. It was no place for a direwolf.

 

 _“Alayne. Alayne Stone. That is your name.”_ _  
_ _She did not know who she was. Lost, she was lost._

_She felt blue in her blood and the howl of a ghost._

_(Go home. Home.)_

 

Joffrey had only been a pawn of Littlefinger: Littlefinger gave him the flame to burn Ned Stark. And Lady died trying to protect her father.

 

_Her father didn’t want to hurt them. The mortals were savages, sinking their claws into his flesh. Lady was being ripped apart, broken by the crowd. She could only hear a mocking laugh over the noise._

_Fire engulfed them all._

 

Joffrey’s sentence had been seen as cruel. ( _Cruel: maybe for this who knew him.)_ And Cersei never really did understand mercy. But she only wanted him to be better.

 

_“Why? He killed father, Sansa. Killed Lady.” Arya’s eyes (so much like father’s) held a conflict of hatred and pity when she gazed upon her. She stood tall in the doorway, unwavering. Ghost and Nymeria hid behind her quiet, watchful. She knew the truth._

_“Because he was capable of love. Not with me, of course. But Margaery showed that if he had a chance- maybe, just maybe, he could be something- no, be someone different.” Sansa had seen his laugh when Margaery complimented him, had seen how he could be kind and show mercy when she smiled. He could have been a hero in a song in that moment. Being a mortal could be seen as a cruel fate to the gods. But gods and mortals were all the same in death. She was giving him a chance although he would have to suffer for it._

_“He doesn’t deserve it.” Ghost had stalked forward, nudging Sansa’s hand for comfort. Gods, how could Sansa decide what anyone deserved when she probably deserved punishment the most. She had caused so much pain for the North, for her home. A gust of wind brushed her cheek. (It felt like father was soothing her, trying to make her forget. Forget the pain, forget her silliness.)_

_“Maybe. But does anyone?”_

 

Cersei would never understand how she doomed her children. ( _Sansa could. Because she had to judge them all._ )

 

Myrcella had been so pure, and Cersei tried to too hard to keep her from the worst of the world. However, Myrcella had fallen in love with a box. The box was a Baratheon treasure that was said to be gifted long ago by ancient Targaryens, ones even before Aerys. It was so seductive that Myrcella cried for many moons until Robert gave it to her. It was ironic that the box would be her ruin. Hiding under all its riches and decorations, it contained all the lost evils in the world. When she came of age, she had fallen in love with a Martell who did not love her back. In her heartbreak, her curiosity caused her to open the box, releasing all the evils inside it. When she perished, Sansa turned her into hope so her innocence could be protect the mortals she doomed.

 

And then Cersei had suffocated Tommen, too worried about losing the only child left to her. Tommen was so terribly lonely; he had only his own beauty for comfort. This comfort became his ruin: he had been so entranced by his own reflection that he committed suicide because he could never truly have it. He was a poor boy, and although he had committed a grave sin, Sansa turned him into a flower so he could always be loved, or at least admired.

 

_“Life is not a song, sweetling. Someday you may learn that, to your sorrow.”_

 

Joffrey was gone now. Littlefinger was alive, but crows would always pick at him for the rest of his days.

 

_“There is no honor in tricks.”_

_He was a thief. Eyes shining, looking to steal more of her._

_“I know why you’re here. You want to know if he is of the North. But he is too much like his mother: bringer of war. He will betray you.”_

 

Ghost snarled, sensing the change in winds. She grasped him by the nape of neck to calm him.

 

_“The worst one always live.”_

_But life could be worse than death._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Littlefinger was based on Prometheus, the dude who I feel like most represented Petyr and his struggle against the feudal system as Prometheus struggled against the gods.  
> Hoped to get this chapter out before the premiere so I worked on it last night. I have been very unbearably excited about this for the last month.


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